


Songs of the Daddy's Boy

by Aondeug



Category: Chronicles of the Kencyrath - P. C. Hodgell
Genre: F/M, Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 11:54:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7800919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aondeug/pseuds/Aondeug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short poems about Tori, often from his perspective. They are small snippets into his mind and feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Halls

**Author's Note:**

> The first three poems were written very shortly after I had finished the third book. Currently only read up to the fourth one!

Where do you walk?

Down those same hallways

old, haunted

ringing with the madman’s voice.

The bolt is shot,

the door locked,

yet he marches on

screaming, shouting.

The door does not open

but you cannot bear it.

Why do you walk?


	2. Strengths

What is strength?  
You’re not quite sure.

Father taught it to be hardness,  
Unyielding fear and distrust,  
Screeching, scrabbling, striking out  
All love crushed before it spreads.

She teaches it to be rebellion,  
Standing up in the face of all,  
Tearing down walls, breaking up bones  
A resounding no and a fierce affirmation.

Experience taught it to be lacking,  
Lost and nowhere to be found  
In the possession of others  
With you always groping about.

Where is strength?  
You’re not quite sure.


	3. Where?

She is ruining you

Ensnaring you just as warned.

Looking on at you,

At your hands fondly, wantonly 

Regarding you well.

Teasing and poking and prodding,

Yet also caring,

Though not often.

The hug has ruined you,

And the kiss too.

Who kissed who?

Why do you not care?

Where is your fear?

 

Oh. 

There it is.

 

Run.


	4. Your hands

Blood boiling

Heart pounding

Burgeoning rage

Only barely contained

Hidden behind that door

That door upon which

Rests your hand

Faltering, failing

 

Open me, open me

Shouts your mind

Open me, open me

Scream your hands

Aching, burning

Pained by a need 

To act, to bring about

Self-destruction so near

  
  


An end to anxiety

Setting it all out

To be overtaken

A wave of hate rushing

Over you, over all

Dark, dark

Full of hate

A raving madman 

Who shouts even now

Open it, open it

And as you slink away

Screams even now

Coward, coward


	5. Non-castration

She’s gelded you, boy

That familiar cry

Runs through your mind

Insistently weaving in

Tainting your mood  


Souring your disposition

So that you, even you

Who is so patient

Slams down a cup

Losing your tolerance

With him, your cousin

And still she has broken you

She has and she steals

Pries away your men and women

Breaking your hold

Attacking your character

All that you are

Brier Iron-thorn, a name lost

A name stolen by her

And she has gelded you, boy

But you, no longer so patient

You wrote a note

And now you wait

Your raving barely contained

 

I am not gelded, Father


	6. Contracts

Honor the contract

Created from need

Ne'erdoweel or no

Never fail it

Inside the room

Ready for talk

Timid words falling

Feast growing cold

Consort smiling slyly

Serving a drink

Denying all harm

Heeding him on

Only a sip

Sampling the wine

Warily quenching thirst

Theories crumpling fully

Fear takes rest

Realing now swaying

Swearing it’s fine

Fog filling head

Honor the contract

Coy hands searching

Slipping down cloth

Creeping ever near

No resistance given

Grunts of perplexion

Shying away slowly

Slightly fearing her

Hands find purchase

Pulling away fabric

Fraying nerves burn

But no strength

Staring with wonderment

Wanting yet not

Nowhere to run

Relishment of terror

Taking by force

Forged with poison

Poured into drink

Damning him totally

To honor it


	7. Nerves

A contract was made

And had to be fulfilled.

Just a limited term

No more than a test.

A “perhaps” was given,

And a firm “no children now”

Which set the nerves at ease.

 

They rise up now,

Tingling, clawing, burning,

All over a dinner.

It is just a meal,

Simple, short.

Pretty little dishes

Just like pretty little words.

Yet there are the nerves rising.

 

A cup is held

But not yet drank from.

She asks of this,

Provides loving assurances

And gives a laugh too.

“It’s just wine, silly.”

Yes, just wine, and no more.

So a sip is taken,

Then more still

And with the wine

The nerves are drowned.

 

The death is gradual

Slow and almost imperceptible,

A pleasant buzzing numbness

Building up overagreeably.

The guard, normally so zealous,

Lays broken and torn down.

The nerves are not missed.

 

She is far too close,

With a voice far too sweet.

The words aren’t parsed

But they captivate wholly,

And the gentle touches too

Cloying, confusing

Edging the affair on

Far past the simple contract.

Yet the nerves are still dead.

 

Only a hand rouses them

And other things too,

Sliding down far too far.

Limbs are weak, and wits too

To weak to provide a fight

Though one is wanted

As the nerves are born anew.


	8. Appeal

The appeal is in what I lack.

Her hardness, her coldness,

That fierce lack of care,

Brashly charging in

And tearing apart to aid.

All to which I look   


Saying with awe, “Now that’s strength,”

While ignoring my own,

Because the appeal is that which I lack.


	9. Drifting

She has drifted on in

Invading your dreams

Or you hers

As you have both,

Since you were young.

Images and thoughts colliding,

A closeness of souls

Which is hard to tell apart,

Finding that she is you

And you are her

Yet also neither is true.

Terrifying notions all

And the most frightening

Is that you drifted on in.


	10. Uncertainty

But you love her

Is what you say

As you argue away

While never knowing with who.

Surely it’s him, your father

With his ever biting words

That infest your very soul.

But what if it’s you?

You who recoils in disgust,

And rants down the halls

Seeking only her death

Or absence otherwise.

What if you’re the monster,

Having been shaped by a demon

And acting on your own?

So you argue with him

and also yourself,

Saying those words

Again and again,

“But I love her.”


	11. Feicim

I see a door

Deadbolt slammed shut

Securing my mind

Mind melted by fear

Ferocious howling 

Hearkening the hand

Hand grips tensely

Terse curses cried

Curse upon you

You, my sister

Sinfully dancing

Dancing on dunes

Deep and far

Falling over head

Heels stamping down

Dangerous accusations made

Moving the hand

Handle deadly cold

Click ringing out

Ousting the dance

Damning myself

I see a door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To celebrate the eighth novel's impending release I've written a poem in lieu of Fedelm's prediction to Madb on the course of the Cattle Raid of Cooley and the Morrígan's prediction of the end of the world. As a sort of nod to Tori's farsight. The poem is written in a short, image focused form of circular phrases, imagery, and verses called rosc, which was used in divination and the incitement to battle. The "I see..." line in particular pulls from the two poems mentioned, this seemingly being a common form for divination verse in the style.
> 
> Feicim, the title, means "I see" in modern Irish.


	12. Like a child

The Highlord hides in the halls      a cowering child.

Yet he sings of his sister, the savior,      while maligning her.

Will it ever cease?      The filial fighting?

Not in nine-hundred years,      says the sorrowing son.


	13. Exorcism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for The Gates of Tagmeth.

I’m not your son,

That’s what you said

And it’s true.

For all my wanting and worrying,

I’m not your son

And I’m left freer for it.

 

What did I buy from you anyway,

Father?

Nothing but broken bones

And broken hopes.

The death of peace of mind

And the deaths of so, so many.

The lives of friends 

Who were lost

For a chance at freedom

Which you stole away

As you do all.

 

Funny thing that.

How you warned me of her

With cries and calls of treachery.

“She’ll steal from you, she’ll break you,”

Again and again

And with that tired old adage

“Destruction begins with love,”

Over and over.

 

But you’re the one that stole,

From me and everyone else.

The one who broke and crushed

Without purpose

And laid me out

As a destroyed toy

For all the world to see,

And to marvel and mock at.

 

That was you, dear Father

Who is not my father

Any longer.

That was you,

The sad shade of a man

Pale and pathetic and pleading

For destruction at my hands.

Begging for release,

For freedom.

And I gave it to you.

 

I tore you down

Because I am not you.

Not the man who lashes out

Forcing his abuses upon others

And without a hint of guilt.

I sent you out

Because I am not you

As a path lays ahead of me

With a family on it,

And love too.


	14. Blood Binds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another OE verse experiment, this time of one of my favorite worst case scenarios for how the Ganth issue could be handled. It's something I've wanted to write for a while but wasn't entirely sure how to do so. So why not narrative verse!

The bashful boy walks barefoot      down the hateful hall of 

His sinister sire with secrecy.      He aims to air out 

Grievances grievous and great      before the loathsome lord,

But prays piteously for silence,      that his ascent is not ascertained.

 

Too late! The door booms, bearings bulging      and cries calling out lies,

Insults and assaults awful     and heard many morns ago.

This is the father’s rage      fierce and insurmountable.

 

So the hand hangs haltingly,      faltering fearfully for the fits of 

Hell heard. Though it would not,      were it not for the wrathful revenge

Of the binding bane of blood      and guilt grabbing at the ankles

Pulling the poor boy down      into a bottomless pit pealing with the broken

Screams and shouts of the mad      made mad by the monster

Lurking in his head here,      right now noxious nagging.

 

Still the fingers feel the handle      cold on clammy hands

And trembling tortuously they turn      the door of the damned’s handle.

The bastard door does not budge--      the bolt is surely still shot!

And the scrabbling and screeching      begins with a renewed rage

“Let me out, odious oaf!”, Father calls      “Loss is love’s only promise!”

 

The boy buckles, falling flat.      This awful act breaks him again

As all the times before,      the secret shame of the Highlord.

Clawing in a craze at crumbling stones      he searches for stalwart strength

To complete the demanded deed      of his greedy God’s gamble,

But now it gnaws newborn      melting his mind

With the ferocity of fitful fear      and guilt gangrenous.

For a moment the maddening malefactions      ring rudely true.

A cravenous coward who crawled      out and away unallowed.

That is he,      the false Highlord.

 

He stands up stock still      shaky shades of breath shuddering

As he gathers gumption      needed now for absolution

For his fateful failure      to hold up honor however horrid.

It is still honor      and honor demands its dues.

So the bolt is banged back      and the handle hurriedly turned

So the death door is opened      once and for all.

 

He peers into the portal poor boy      begging to be brought to justice

For crimes cruel and hideous --      and there! Looming long the loathsome shade

Of father furious falls upon him      and he is a child chilled to the bone.

Now his knees fail him      dreading the damnation coming.

But what is a wretch to do      at the sight of that sin-filled scowl

Save to sacrifice oneself      for friends failed far past

To free them from the hell      dealt by devilish desires,

And so the shackles savagely shearing      one’s mind to mush

May be broken off by bearing      the pitiless patriarch’s punishment.

 

A son is but the father’s,      and a son is but their father. 


End file.
